


Keep You Like an Oath

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: AU - Freeform, Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Depression, Equally Sassy Bucky Barnes, Friends to Lovers, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sassy Steve Rogers, Self-Destructive Thinking, Skinny!Steve, Steve Had a Big Breakfast, Suicidal Thoughts, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tumblr otpprompt, sad fic, the author is a horrible person, well maybe SOMETHING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Excuse me?” </p><p>Bucky’s breath caught, cold and harsh in his throat, and he stepped back from the railing, foot flattening to steady himself at the sound of a low, out-of-breath voice from the other side of the bridge.</p><p>Person A has had a hard life and is planning suicide. They decide to jump off a bridge at dawn so that the last thing they see can be the only thing they deem beautiful. Just before they got on the ledge, Person B walks by asking if they came to watch the sunrise. Person A, not wanting to be stopped by this stranger, says yes, and decides to wait for them to leave. Instead, the two start to get along and go out for breakfast. Over the next few years, Person A starts to get their life back together, and them and Person B become friends-turned-couple, and are happy together. One night a year or two into their romantic relationship, Person A finally reveal what they were really going to do the morning they met. What Person B’s reaction is up to you.</p><p>WARNINGS: possible triggers, suicidal ideation. Depression. If that is painful for you, DO NOT READ THIS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moose Antlers, Apple Juice, and Lawn Frogs

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Because I really needed to write more angst *slapping my head* and because some of those Tumblr prompts grab me by the throat like a lion glomping a wildebeest. I’m blocked on my next Rose in Winter update, my next White Rose update, and my Clex Homestead piece that has been sitting lonely and unfinished on my hard drive for about two or three years or so… I suck. I do.
> 
> Title from “Uma Thurman” by Fall Out Boy. Because that line made me think “I need to write a fic with that as the title” from the moment I heard it play.
> 
> Again, if this makes you uncomfortable, skip this one and read "You Know My Days Are Cold Without You" or "That Competitive Edge" instead. Sometimes I write sad stuff. It's cathartic. I just don't want to make everybody ELSE sad, too.

The drive up into the mountains was uneventful enough, cold, and for Bucky, very loud. His battered, rusted 1969 Mustang cranked up the rise as he flattened his foot on the gas, road noise infiltrating the cabin and making him turn up the volume on his old radio. His heater blasted hot, stale air, dueling with the rush of freezing gusts from his open driver’s side window and flavored with Marlboro smoke. Glowing orange bits of ash were flying back at him from the cigarette, threatening to ruin his denim jacket and white tee, but he didn’t care.

He just didn’t care anymore.

The trees rose like sentinels along the roadside, blurring under the glow of the lights. The small road markers winked at him as he passed, briefly illuminated by his headlights. He was driving too fast and close to running out of gas. 

The car tested him all summer, with its leaky radiator seal, having to run the heat even when it was one hundred degrees in the shade to keep the radiator from overheating. Every three months, it needed a new repair or another used part just to keep it running, and Bucky would have to choose which utility bill had to wait for the next month, or that he could sprinkle a few “kitchen table full of red notices” dollars on until payday. “Paydays” only equaled about forty-eight hours of stability in his bank balance. Every month he played the same game of how many days he could wait before he had to go to the grocery store, and how many days before he got paid that it would take for a check to clear. Or buy gas. Or afford dog food.

Clint hadn’t pressed when Bucky asked on the spur of the moment if he could take Lucky from him for the weekend, brows furrowing slightly when Bucky merely responded with “just on a jaunt, nowhere special” when he asked him where he was headed. 

“One of _those_ weekends, huh, pal?” Clint countered with a gleam in his eye, nodding knowingly. Bucky mimicked him, and they “ah’ed” in unison. Different voice in Bucky’s mind warred over showing Clint some sign that he shouldn’t believe him, and urging Bucky to smile more widely, smugly, as though whatever happened with his “weekend” was going to stay at his destination once he returned home.

Except that he wasn’t.

Lucky made a low whining noise, head-butting Bucky's hand and thumping his tail in distress when Bucky gave him a brief goodbye rubdown. His soulful dark eyes seemed to be pleading with him, and Bucky felt his eyes burn.

*

He drove up to the Vista Point slightly off the freeway. It was his favorite place for a rest stop on happier trips than this one, seeming too long ago. He put his car in park but left the motor running just to listen to his music for a little while. He reached around the back of the seat and found the paper sack of liquor, accidentally tearing it when he picked it up by the corner. Bucky cursed and retrieved the fallen bottle, opened it, and chugged down about a fifth, letting it burn its way down into his chest. He savored it, letting it warm him against that wind whistling around him, tearing at the side of his hair. He turned on his high beams and stared out over the ledge, past the safety railings. Below him were rocky crags and more spindly pines and a strip of the river, so far down that he couldn’t even hear its rushing flow. It was heady at this height, and his stomach twisted with anticipation. 

He smoked the cigarette down and flicked the butt out onto the gravel, hissing as an ember flew back into his face, ash landing in his eye. “Fuck!” Because _why wouldn’t something so simple as throwing away his cigarette_ go just as miserably as anything else that he tried?

He let the song wash over him as he gulped down another hit of Jack Daniels, letting it numb him, making all of the voices screaming inside him soften and fade to a low hum. One rose above the rest, making him screw the unfinished bottle shut. He tucked it against his side like a lover and backed the car out of the shallow lot, pulling back from the ledge. The vista promised a spectacular view of the sunrise, but it wasn’t enough.

 

It needed to end where it began.

 

He took the next turn-off three miles away, heedless of the signs warning him about falling rock hazards and not to bring open glass containers into the area. Bucky huffed a laugh.

“Gonna be empty in a while, you fuckers,” he muttered. He slowed down and rode down the hill toward the clearing. It was pitch black, and the small staff shed was unlit and empty. Bucky parked and cut his lights, popping his trunk as he got out. He took the bottle with him and debated on taking his keys with him. It was instinct, protective, automatic; but why force someone to have to tow his wreck, when he wasn’t coming b-

“Fuck.” He plowed his hand through his hair and leaned against the car, releasing shaky breaths and feeling his stomach twist again with what he was planning to do. “Get it together, Barnes,” he muttered. “Can’t do _this_ right, either?”

_Yes, you can._

He fished out the folded blanket and slammed the trunk, wincing at the way it seemed to complain with his mistreatment. How many times had he told his friends not to slam his car doors and trunk so hard? More than once, he’d swatted Clint’s nasty feet off his dash and had to remind Nat to be gentle with the door handle, which was gradually buckling away from the panel.

Bucky’s treasure would be someone else’s trash in the morning. He fished his keys out of his pocket, feeling their jagged edges and cool weight in his palm. He opened the car door and threw them onto the seat, then gently shut it. If someone wanted a free car, they could have it. Bucky strode off toward the hill, barely able to see five feet in front of him. He stumbled over the dips and tufts of grass over the ground, feeling stalks of nasty star thistle scraping his ankles and tearing at his jeans and beat-up Adidas. His eyes burned as he walked. The thought occurred to him to use his phone as a flashlight as he made his way toward the trestle bridge. The climb uphill was steep, and the wind tore at his clothing and hair, drafts snaking up under his jacket and collar. He drank more of the whiskey to temper the chill and stoke his nerve, and his legs burned with the effort from the climb. He heard pebbles rolling down in his wake where his trudging steps dislodged them. The autumn air was brisk; normally the river about a mile off would draw mosquitoes, but the only sounds he heard over the wind were a flock of birds overhead, disturbed by what must have been an eighteen-wheeler plowing down the road. 

Bucky reached the opening of the bridge, staring out at the gnarled, uneven planks and rails. When Bucky was a kid, his parents had brought him and Becca up to the bridge to take pictures and to go sight-seeing around the river. He’d been terrified out of his wits, almost ready to pee his pants as they began to walk across the bridge. The planks had wide gaps between some of them, and their dog, Beau, kept whimpering and shying on his leash until George tied him at the end of the bridge and promised Bucky they would return to him, that it was better not to make the dog nervous. Bucky wanted to cry out, _What about me?_ but George was nonplussed, sweeping Bucky up onto his shoulders, a place Bucky normally felt secure and powerful, towering over everything else, fingers curled into his father’s hair, George’s large hands clamped firmly around his ankles.

The bushes on the ground looked like cottonballs from that height. Becca kept pointing and crowing that she could see their car, and she kept wondering why she couldn’t touch the sky, if they were so high up. Winifred challenged her to try again, but standing on her tippy-toes. They crossed the bridge, and it was the longest walk of Bucky’s life. He jittered with fear and clung to his father for dear life, and when they reached the other side, ending at the mouth of the foot path, Bucky leapt down and ran down the trail, trying to get as far away from the bridge as he could. George caught up to him and soothed him, then distracted him with something tiny clasped in his fist.

A red gecko.

It looked only slightly thicker around than an earthworm, delicate and vibrant, and it was skittish as he reached out one tiny, stubby finger to touch it.

_”Can we take him home?”_

_“Sorry, bud. He belongs here. But we can come back to visit him?”_

It was an empty promise. It turned out to be the last road trip that the four of them took as a family. But it wasn’t the last gecko they saw. The foot path was crawling with them, as well as an assortment of crickets, striped garter snakes and tiny tree frogs. Winifred screamed bloody murder when a black widow spider dropped down on a shining thread in front of them, and Bucky took brief, mean comfort that he wasn’t the only one to get scared on that trip.

Bucky crossed the bridge, practically hugging the rails for the first few yards, and the wind gusted at him, making him cling to the cold metal, until he laughed at himself. _Remember why you’re here, Barnes._ But it was too soon. His clock flashed 11:45 up at him, and while he had an agenda tonight, he wasn’t going to be hasty about it.

His past few weeks were characterized with organizing and plodding, careful planning. Lists. Multiple trips to Goodwill. Listing many of his belongings on Craigslist and leaving larger items out in the street with “Free” signs taped to them when they didn’t move quickly enough for his taste. He closed out his meager bank account and paid his landlord his late rent, not caring if groceries weren’t in the equation. The nearly bare shelves in the fridge were almost comforting. Fewer things to spoil.

Bucky wondered when anyone would find him. Who would care to find him. The trail didn't have any answers for him. Some part of him had hoped to find peace when he came out here, but his heart was thudding heavily in his chest. Grief wrapped around him like a coat. The voices were abusing him, clawing at him. _You deserve this._ He shook his head, and tears rolled hotly down his cheeks, then felt clammy as he was hit with another icy gust of wind. The only thing that would bring him peace, he decided, was the sunrise.

It was his favorite part of coming out here, so far away from the city and the crowds and light pollution. The sunrise in autumn was spectacular, a riot of purple and vermillion streaking across the cobalt sky, wreathing a brilliant orange sun. When Bucky worked night shifts, he loved leaving work just as the sun came up, leading him home, growing more beautiful as he drove through each stoplight.

Bucky remembered nights camping with his parents, huddling with Becca inside the tent, exhausted from days filled with hiking, wading in creeks and lakes, river tubing, and fishing with George off the side of his uncle’s boat. No matter how tired he was, his sleep was restless and his senses were too sharp; slivers of moonlight infiltrated the tent, and crickets and frogs’ chirps made him fidget awake every time he dropped most of the way to sleep. He inevitably drank too much soda before bedtime and ended up getting up to go to the campground bathroom at least twice, having to crawl over his sister, who sprawled out and took up all the space.

But he loved dawn. The sunrise redeemed nights of choppy sleep and being freaked out by all of the small sounds as he watched the sky gradually shift from cobalt to cerulean, seeing those first golden rays tickling the clouds, making them look like cream puffs. The sunrise meant that Winifred was ready to make her groggy way to the cooler to unpack and make coffee – he never drank any, but it smelled fantastic – and start the bacon and eggs. It meant that he could prod and nag Becca awake so he would have someone to talk to, even when she whined petulantly at him and swatted him with a pillow.

It meant he was safe, and surrounded by the people he loved for another day.

He reached the clearing and laid down, curling himself in his blanket. He glanced one more time at his phone before powering it off. He stared up into the sky and listened to the wind, trying to ignore the gnats hovering around him, swatting at an ant that crawled up his neck. He sighed, letting himself drowse, letting his memories run through his mind on a slow reel. Becca hadn’t returned his voice mails yet, which wasn’t unusual, but it chafed him more, now. It just _did_. Every call to Becca or to his mother felt wrong, rife with insincere assurances that he was fine, that he was managing, even when his life was going down the toilet. Unpaid bills. Repairs he couldn’t afford to make on his house. Staring down the barrel of a layoff and having no responses on any of his applications, except a few who claimed that he was “too qualified.” He edited his conversations and diverted the discussion back to them, asking Winifred if she’d found anything interesting while she was antiquing, and grilling Becca on whether she’d made any progress for finding a publisher for her thesis.

Worst of all was the overwhelming feeling that no one really “gets him.” The loneliness was oppressive every night as soon as he set foot into his house. Lucky kept him from climbing the walls – and doing anything desperate sooner, possibly – but it was difficult, seeing his own misery reflected in his dog’s gestures, the way he would nose him, headbutting his arm up until Bucky lifted it to snuggle him, hearing the low whine in his throat, the constant reminder that _everything_ seemed to be wrong with him.

Everything just hurt so much.

*

He must have dozed. He could blame it on the whiskey. He woke up with a fuzzy mouth and the beginnings of a headache, then felt disgruntled that he was hungover before getting sufficiently drunk. He leaned up on his elbows and checked his phone. The sky had shifted; the outlines of the clouds were slowly becoming more visible in the gloom as black gave way to navy. The sky was swimming with stars, and the moon looked lower, larger, a perfect pearl. It was 4:30AM, and his stomach twisted again. Another hour, maybe two. Resolute, he rose and took up his blanket, wrapping it around him against the chill. His muscles were horrendously stiff, but soon that wouldn’t matter at all.

He wandered back to the bridge, and for the first time, he paused, leaning over the rail and staring out over the abyss. He didn’t feel the same clutch of fear in his chest or dizziness. It yawned open, welcoming him, waiting for him to claim it.

_What a way to go._

He slugged down more of the whiskey, hair of the dog, and his headache ebbed slightly, replacing it with a buzz. The last few songs he’d listened to on his radio came to him, and he hummed them to keep himself company.

He was shitty company.

*

The whisky bottle was finally empty. He set it down on a splintering plank, swaying slightly on his feet. The sky was beginning to lighten, making the stars more difficult to pick out; the blue rivaled his sister’s eyes, a darker blue like George’s, not like Bucky and Winifred’s soft blue-gray. He was still huddled in his blanket, and he was growing anxious, so determined, hating himself if he lost his nerve. If he didn’t do this…

If he _couldn’t do this…_

The tears returned, and his throat burned, raspy and thick. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Why. _Why._ ”

No. He knew why he was there, and look, the stars were fading, and he could see the outline of the clouds more sharply, and he’d always wondered what it would feel like to fly and feel his feet release the ground-

If he waited too long, he wouldn’t go through with it. Just like the enormous waterslide at Scandia that was a vertical plunge, making his stomach dip even standing at the edge when he was a kid, or when his friends took him to Bear Hole and dared him to jump off the low cliff face, roughly twenty feet up. He’d chickened out then. _Where are your friends now?_ So many of them had gone in different directions after he finished school. When he settled in his hometown, it almost felt like a cop-out. Yet he liked his cul-de-sac lined with minivans and Jeeps, full of Girl scouts selling cookies and houses painted in re-sellable colors.

He gripped the railing, testing how it felt as he began to hoist himself up slightly. He could climb over it easily enough, he figured, if-

“Excuse me?” 

Bucky’s breath caught, cold and harsh in his throat, and he stepped back from the railing guiltily, foot flattening to steady himself at the sound of a low, out-of-breath voice from the other side of the bridge. He whipped around and saw a man making his way across, hesitant and unsteady as Bucky had been, his apparent fear of heights written all over his thin face. He was tiny, Bucky noticed, thin as a wisp and garbed in heavy jeans, boots, and a quilted flannel shirt. He had a wool beanie pulled down over his ears and wore a pair of chunky-framed hipster glasses, magnifying large, intelligent-looking eyes. “I saw your car down there,” he called out. “Did you break down?” 

“Uh…” Bucky searched for an explanation, still shocked at meeting anyone in this particular place, at nearly the crack of dawn. These things just didn’t happen. He wondered if the universe was yanking his dick. “Uh-uh. I didn’t… I didn’t break down.” _Yes, you did._ The irony wasn’t lost on Bucky, and he hated the idea of lying to this guy. He’d told so many damned lies.

“Wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here,” the guy continued, offering Bucky a bashful smile as he approached, and Bucky realized in horror that this guy would figure out real quick how drunk he was. He glanced down briefly at the empty bottle and felt ashamed. _Fuck._ “But you can’t beat this view. Just wish it didn’t involve the climb.” He sounded winded, and Bucky really noticed the height difference between them once he was a yard away from him. Bucky almost forgot about the tears frozen on his cheeks until the man asked him, “Buddy, you okay?” 

“No,” Bucky muttered. “Just… out and about. Here to enjoy the view. And to think.” 

“Nothing wrong with that,” was the careful reply. The stranger leaned against the rail hesitantly, then shifted back a bit, overwhelmed by the altitude. “God, it’s like it practically sucks you right over if you get too close. Used to hate it when my friends used to bring me here and pretend they were gonna throw me off.” 

“Your friends sound like they suck,” Bucky huffed. “Er… sorry. They probably don’t-“

“Yeah, they do,” came the amused reply, and he was staring up at Bucky. “I come out here to watch the sunrise from time to time. It’s amazing from up here.” Bucky gave him a stiff little nod, then turned away.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It really is.” 

“Look,” Mr. Hipster Glasses told him, “if you want your space, and if I intruded, then I can just-“

“It’s a free country,” Bucky blurted out, even as he wondered to himself, What the hell am I doing? “Bridge doesn’t have my name on it. Neither does the sunrise.” The guy huffed a laugh.

“All right.” He dug into his pocket and checked his little iPhone, and Bucky noticed when the screen light came on, that this guy’s eyes were a soft, clear blue, fringed in long lashes. His brows were thick and sandy, and his nose was faintly crooked, saving his face from being too pretty, but hell, this guy was pretty hot, anyway. Bucky tried to clear his throat, but it was impossible. “Sun should be coming up any minute, now.” He unbuttoned his flannel, and Bucky noticed the bump under it, a concealed camera case draped over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna adjust this for a minute.” 

“You take pictures?” 

“Uh-huh. Mostly freelance, but I work for a graphics company. Kinda like Shutterstock, but smaller. It almost pays the bills. Sometimes I can afford milk for my corn flakes.” 

“God, tell me about it,” Bucky huffed, plowing his hand through his hair. It had grown long and slightly shaggy, but he couldn’t afford a haircut yet. He knew there had to be bits and pieces of grass in it, but he didn’t care at the moment. “I need to buy milk.” 

“One more thing on the list, huh?” 

“It’s a big list.” 

“Money doesn’t buy happiness. But it buys bacon,” the guy joked. “You don’t really need anything else.” 

That pried a laugh out of Bucky. For a moment, it felt good. He rubbed at his eyes, knowing they had to look wrecked and bloodshot. His new companion paused in adjusting the lens of his camera and peered up at him. “I’m an idiot. My name’s Steve. Here I am, just running my mouth.” He held out his hand, surprisingly large for someone that short. He was a study in contradictions, petite and clearly young, but his voice was deep and rich, with an east coast accent and lazy vowels. His grip was strong and, and to Bucky’s delight, really warm.

“Bucky. Short for James, but I hate it.” 

“James is nice,” Steve argued.

“You know at least ten Jameses. Then people call you Jimmy. No adult male should go by Jimmy.” 

“Bucky’s more mature sounding than Jimmy?” Steve argued, smirking. Bucky flipped him off, and Steve laughed outright. “Sorry, buddy. You made that one too easy.” 

“Punk,” Bucky muttered. “Don’t make me throw you off this bridge.” Steve held up his hands in surrender.

“Wouldn’t be hard. Can’t gain a pound to save my life.” Something in his tone was disparaging, despite his attempt at a smile.

“You know how many people in this country wished they had that problem?” 

“It’s not… it’s not even a ‘problem,’” Steve told him, making quotey fingers. “People just suck, sometimes.” 

“Yeah, they do,” Bucky agreed bitterly. He kicked himself for a moment, remembering too late that sometimes people were sensitive about their size, and now maybe Steve thought he was a dick for mentioning it. 

“I can still shop in the men’s section. I just have to take all my pants to get hemmed and I wear a lot of belts.” That explained why the pair he had on fit him so nicely.

“Shoot. The kid’s section is cheaper,” Bucky pointed out, teasing him slightly.

“When I’m in the market for Minecraft shirts and Osh Kosh jeans to wear to my next pitch meeting, I’ll keep that in mind. Jerk.”

Bucky huffed when Steve elbowed him, and he held up his hands in surrender, grinning.

They chatted for a while, pointing out constellations, and the knot in Bucky’s stomach gradually loosened with the distraction of Steve’s laugh and goofy stories. The voices in his head dimmed and died, and he felt lighter, somehow, as the sky brightened by degrees. Most of the stars had disappeared, and the clouds were wispy, as though someone had dragged their finger through them. Steve tested out a few shots of the treeline, trying to catch the border of growing sunlight around them. Bucky watched him work, listening to the low grinding noises and clicks as he focused his lens.

“So you mostly take pictures?” 

“That’s what pays some of the bills. Everything else costs more money than it brings in. I illustrate, too, but good Bristol stock and ink pens aren’t free. It’s hard to get people to follow through and pay for commissions once you’ve done the work.” 

“Screw that,” Bucky agreed. “You can do a lot with pictures, at least.” 

“Yep.” The sky was finally a rich shade of ultramarine, and the sun began to push itself up in the distance. “Here it comes. C’mon, c’mon,” he urged. “Come to Daddy. I need these shots for my next paycheck, so just cooperate already, Mr. Sun…” Bucky chuckled and shook his head. Guy was a goof.

Bucky had a thought. “You cold?” 

“M’okay.” 

“Um. No. You look kinda blue around the mouth. Here.” Bucky opened up his blanket and draped one side of it around Steve. Steve sheepishly took it and tucked it more closely around himself. 

“Okay,” he muttered, embarrassed. “Thanks.” 

“No worries.” 

“I’ve got thyroid issues. I run cold most of the time,” he told Bucky. “Between that, the asthma, the wonky blood pressure, wonky blood sugar, and leaky gut, my chart at my doctor’s office takes up two volumes. And that’s just from the past year.” 

“Shit.” Bucky tugged on the back of his hair. “Wow. Never woulda guessed, pal. M’sorry.” 

“I’m a hot mess,” Steve admitted, shrugging, but his eyes were crinkling with amusement. “Immune system of a toddler in a crowded day care. M’always sick. Gotta get out and get things done when I’m still feelin’ kinda good, y’know?” 

“You’re an asthmatic,” Bucky prodded. 

“Yeah.” 

“And you climbed all the fuck up here?” 

“Yup.” 

“For a sunrise?” 

“It was worth it,” he said, shrugging again. He took another shot from a different angle. “Wish I could stir up that flock of birds over there. It’d look awesome with them flying across the sky the way it’s lit up right now.” 

“Buddy, all you gotta do is ask,” Bucky told him smugly. He poked his finger and thumb into the corners of his mouth and whistled, loud and sharp like he was hailing a cab. Steve hissed and blocked his ear with his hand. 

“Fuck! That was loud. Mind warning a guy first?” 

“Fine. Cover your ears, ya pussy.” Bucky let loose another _fuh-weeeeeeeeeet!_ with his lips, and that one did the trick. The birds answered back with a chorus of tweets and angry chitters and the rushing sound of flapping wings as they took off. 

“Shit! Yes! YES!” Steve cried as he focused and clicked, getting a small handful of good shots, following the birds’ flight with a quarter turn of his body. He lowered his camera and grinned, and Bucky was hit hard by how his smile lit up his face. “Got any other tricks?” he asked Bucky. 

“No good ones.” Bucky rubbed his nape and looked away shyly. “Sorry.” 

“Are you kidding? That was awesome! I can’t wait to see what it looks like when I start editing! I’m gonna hafta bring you along again when I’m on a shoot as my assistant.” 

Bucky’s eyes were bleak for a moment, hurt flashing from them, but he laughed it off. “Yeah, sure. What does that involve? Fetching your coffee?” 

“Eh. Shining my shoes, taking out the trash, being my umbrella holder and food taster…”

“Fuck off.” 

“Hey, I’ll pay you in coupons and jellybeans. It’ll be a sweet gig.” 

“God, I’d take _any_ gig right about now.” Steve’s smile faltered. 

“Seriously? You need work?” 

“Got a notice a month ago. My job was outsourced. I’m getting two months of severance pay, and COBRA coverage that I won’t be able to afford. It’s a fucking joke,” Bucky said bitterly. He leaned his forearms against the railing and toyed with the hem of his side of the blanket. Steve huddled back under his half, appreciating the soft microfiber fleece. 

“Wow.” Steve shook his head. “Economy sucks right now.” 

“Yeah, kinda does.” 

“Whaddya do, again?” 

“Never mentioned that. I’m a social worker. I worked the night shift in Discharge Planning at Shield General.” His voice grew unsteady. “I’m probably gonna lose my house.” 

“Ouch…” Steve exhaled a gusty sigh. “Bucky, I’m so sorry, man. Hope you manage to get by. That’s… wow. That sucks.” 

“I don’t have a clue what I’m doing,” Bucky admitted, and he felt the spark of tears again, but he rubbed his eyes like he’d gotten dust in them. “Might be nice,” he told Steve, voice slightly muffled by his hand, “if you got a shot of that patch of clouds over there. They’re pretty sweet.” And they were, caramel yellows swirling together with orange sherbet, broken up by spindly tree branches whose bark was nearly black. Steve dutifully aimed and shot, clicking away, but still spoke to Bucky as he worked. 

“Social work, huh? Got your PhD?” 

“Uh-huh. Fat lot of good it does me right now…”

“Looks nice on paper,” Steve joked. 

“I’ll remember that when I’m shoveling it into the fireplace to keep warm this winter. College degrees make the best kindling.” 

“You’re really dramatic, y’know that, Buck? Have you applied to the county?” 

“Yup. Huge candidate pool for the one job they had on their board. The juvenile group homes are always hiring, but they don’t pay half of what I earn right now.” 

Steve was quiet and thoughtful as he adjusted his camera. Bucky hated how helpless he sounded, and he realized that Steve might not want to listen to him if he kept shooting his suggestions down. “You’re right, though. The county would be great to get a gig with, but once you get those jobs, you don’t leave. Those are the ones who sit at the same desk for thirty years and don’t budge until it’s time to retire.” 

“Bucky, have you considered hospice?” 

“Hospice?” 

“Yeah. You had to refer patients for hospice services, right?” 

“Yeah, I made outgoing referrals,” Bucky told him. And they were daunting, difficult cases. Booking family meetings, filling out power of attorney paperwork, keeping POLSTs on file, coordinating comfort care and home equipment… it went with the territory. It was delicate work, but he developed a knack for helping families through some of the worst times of their lives. 

And he was being pink-slipped. 

“I know this guy,” Steve told him as he took a shot of a cliff face, the same point where Bucky had parked the night before. “His name’s Sam. Nice as can be. .He works for this home health and hospice agency. One of their LCSW’s is retiring in a few weeks. They’re going to post it pretty soon. You know how our county is. We’re small potatoes. My doctor told me that the clinic is losing a lot of the specialists, because so many people are badly insured here. They’re all taking off for the university hospitals and the bigger cities.” Bucky tsked, nodding. 

“Hell yeah, they are. The money’s just not here. The hospital’s getting hit, too. That’s why I’m being ‘downsized.’” He made quotey fingers around that, and Steve made a sound of disgust. “They brought in a consulting firm. They went through our books, followed us around work all day for a month, getting in the way, asking dumb questions, and timing everything we did, whether it was a patient screening interview or arranging a transport to a nursing home. They were all up in our grill, smiling at us and telling us they were just there to recommend improvements. Our unit’s losing a third of its staff.” 

“Are they _nuts?_ ” Steve was incredulous. “How do they expect to get the work done with so little staff?” 

“Better time management. Having social work only work on cases on a referral basis, instead of making unit-wide rounds. Cutting back on the freebies we offered, because we were _bleeding_ money. Comping patients rides home, doing med fills on discharge, eating the cost of equipment when they were uninsured… they made so many cuts.” 

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice was quiet. “You guys do good work. You do.” 

He spoke like someone who knew. 

“Treated my ma real good. She was on fifth floor, west wing, for about three months.” 

Bucky’s mouth went dry. “What’d she have?” 

“When she went in, stage three lymphoma. Went home on hospice. Sam was the case worker who the agency sent out to us. Ordered her the best equipment, set us up with a part-time CNA, a nurse to keep track of her medications…” His voice caught. “She wasn’t in any pain.” 

Everything floated away from him. Every trouble weighing on Bucky’s mind, clawing at him and trapping him in his own, miserable little bubble for weeks… just left the room. For those few moments, while Steve fiddled with his camera and shifted his weight against the railing, tightening the blanket around himself, brushing against Bucky’s side. The light kept shifting, clouds lightening as the brilliant jewel tones faded to pastel. The birds were singing, and Bucky couldn’t remember when the crickets stopped, or when his buzz started to fade, but he did remember when he realized that Steve Rogers was someone he needed in his life, however he could have him. 

“Are you hungry?” Bucky scrubbed his face with his palm, mentally coaching himself that maybe he’d shave later. Or tomorrow. At some point. “I haven’t had anything to eat since about six last night. ‘Bout ready to chew my own arm off.” 

“I’m glad you came out and said it. I was afraid you heard my stomach a minute ago. I’m friggin’ _starving_.”

“I know this little place with moose antlers on the wall.” Steve grinned. 

“Ruby’s?” 

“Yup.” 

“I’m buyin’.” 

“Uh-uh,” Bucky argued. “But, uh… maybe you’re driving.” Bucky freed himself from his half of the blanket and bent down to pick up his empty bottle. 

“Ah.”

“And… I’m kinda outta gas.” 

*

Bucky felt like he was folded in half in Steve’s tiny Prius, but Steve cranked up the heater, and they were toasty warm, listening to his Pandora station using his Bluetooth plug. Bucky’s blanket was stowed in Steve’s trunk. While they were waiting at a stoplight at the bottom of the hill, Bucky felt his phone buzz with a text. He looked down at the screen at Clint’s message and grimaced. 

_Lucky’s giving me that look like “Were you planning on feeding me breakfast today?” You didn’t pack him enough food. I’m giving him last night’s pizza, since you’re out of town and not around to kick my ass. Next time, buy more dog chow, k?_ Bucky growled under his breath, then chuckled. 

“What?” Steve glanced at him before traffic moved again. 

“Nothing. Buddy of mine is keeping my dog for me for a day or… two.” There was another way that Bucky had been ready to fuck everything up, another thing he questioned about himself in the light of day. 

“What kind?” 

“My dog? He’s a mutt. No clue what his parents were, but I’m guessing he’s some kind of setter/beagle mix. He’s cute in a funny looking way. I call him Lucky. He answers to it about a tenth of the time.” 

“Maybe he needs a better name.” 

“Maybe he needs a better person, period. I suck as an owner. I sleep all day and work all night. I don’t get to spend enough time with him.” That was all about to change soon enough, he remembered sourly. Bucky toyed with a hole in the knee of his battered jeans, tugging on the loose threads. 

“Dogs are forgiving. I like dogs better than most people I’ve met. Can’t have one in my apartment building, though.” 

“Yeah? Lemme know if you ever need a dog fix. We can take mine for a walk.” Steve grinned. 

“All right. Sounds good.” 

“Don’t be surprised if he wraps you around every lamp post and telephone pole in the neighborhood, though.” 

*

Ruby’s was crowded, but the hostess seated them in five minutes and set down some water glasses and smudged laminated menus with old timey photos of food captioned with western lettering. Bucky ordered the lumberjack special; Steve went with the popeye skillet and snuck jealous looks at Bucky’s pancakes when they arrived. 

“Fucking gluten allergy! Those look so good,” he complained as he coaxed short dollops of ketchup out of the bottle onto his home fries. Bucky made a helpless “what can you do?” smile as he drowned them in syrup and skated the pat of butter over the top one. 

“Sucks to be you.” Bucky took a rapturous bite, letting his face telegraph how good they were. “Oh, God, Steve. These are _awful._ Terrible. They should be ashamed of themselves for serving this to people…” He shoveled in another thick wedge, and laughed until he almost choked when Steve flipped him the bird. 

“Seriously, though, Buck.” Steve mixed up the contents of his skillet with his fork. “I’m gonna give you Sam’s number. He’s great. He’ll give you the inside tip on that job.” He sipped his apple juice, which he had the waitress bring to him hot in a teacup in lieu of coffee; the only thing he regretted more than the gluten allergy, Bucky found out, was that his ulcer and reflux issues made coffee a no-go. “It’s a great agency. Might be a nice change of pace from working in the hospital.” 

Bucky considered it while he cut his sausage into needlessly small bites. 

They settled up the bill – Steve beat Bucky’s grab for his wallet and handed his ATM to the waitress first. “You wanna leave the tip, be my guest.” 

“I was the one who suggested breakfast. It was gonna be my treat.” 

“Save your money for gas. We’ve still gotta get your car back.” That was the fly in the ointment, Bucky groused to himself. 

“You don’t have to. I have to.” 

“No. _We_ have to, because I wanna take pictures of it. It was too dark to last night when I saw it in the lot. And I wanted to get the permission of whoever owned it first, anyway. So, I can, right?” 

“Yeah, you can. Dork.” 

“Jerk.” Bucky flushed when Steve elbowed him again. Steve took them through the building early morning traffic to Bucky’s neighborhood, and he whistled enviously as they passed all the manicured lawns. 

“Wow. This is nice. I can’t afford to live around here on what I make.” 

“That’s when you get a roommate. Some of my neighbors rent out rooms,” Bucky pointed out. 

“No, thanks. Done that before. I’m an awful roommate, and I don’t have the patience to tiptoe around other people. I don’t want anyone bitching at me if they were the last one who took out the trash or drank the last of the milk.” He shook his blond head with the memory. “I had two roommates that I shared a crappy townhouse apartment with a few years ago. The one guy was a slob and spent most of his time getting high in his room and kept eating my food. The other one wrote his NAME on EVERYTHING in the fridge or the cupboard that he bought.” 

“Why do I get the impression that didn’t work out?” 

“Because you’re a smart, smart man. Psychic, maybe.” Steve turned onto Bucky’s cul-de-sac when Bucky pointed to the sign. “Which house?” 

“Blue one, white shutters and lawn frogs in the flower bed.” 

“What? No garden gnomes?” 

“They’re cliché. And my sister Becca bought the frogs.” 

They were seriously the ugliest things Steve ever saw in anyone’s yard, and he told Bucky as much when they pulled into his driveway. (“I never said my sister had _taste_ , Steve”), and Bucky chided him not to trip over the ones lined up on his porch steps. He unlocked his house and showed Steve to his living room, then crinkled his nose at the sour odor coming from his kitchen. It had to be the foam wrapper from the package of chicken he’d eaten that hadn’t made it to the outside trash. _Fuck._ But that was his life, lately. Lose the job, watching his house fall apart one piece at a time, and now, gross out the cute guy he’d just met. Steve didn’t say a word, just sat instead on Bucky’s couch and flipped through his Game Informer magazine while Bucky muttered something about running out to he garage for a second to grab his gas can. 

“You should get AAA,” Steve told him when he came back inside with the can. 

“I’ll add that to the list.” Steve chuckled. 

“Yeah. I _hate_ that list. Keeps growing outta control.” 

“What’s on yours?” Bucky asked. 

“Let’s see. Pay off the student loans-“

“Yup,” Bucky agreed, holding up a finger to start count. 

“…pay off a half-dozen of my medical bills-“

“Yup.” Bucky ticked off another finger. 

“New shoes.” 

“Yup.” 

“Finish paying off my lawyer. My mom’s will is still in probate.” 

“Ouch…”

“ _Ouch._ No shit. That’s been a headache. New mattress. Mine’s on its last legs.”

“Yup.” 

“New kitchen stuff. I’ve got appliances that look like they came out of Carol Brady’s kitchen.” 

“Yup. I’ve got that on my wish list, too. Eventually.” 

“Where do you wanna get gas?” 

“Safeway. I’ve got points saved up. Should get the ten-cent discount off per gallon this time. Just wish I could use it to fill up the whole car.” Bucky tsked. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Tough break, Buck.” 

They headed back up the hill after getting the gas, and when they reached Bucky’s car back at the lot, Steve whistled. “That’s what I’m talking about. She’s got character.” 

“That’s code for saying my car’s a piece of shit, isn’t it?” 

“Uh-uh. Don’t put mean words in my mouth. That car’s a _classic._ ” Bucky beamed as the got out. He opened up the gas cap and gave her a drink. “I peeked inside last night. Sorry,” he admitted. “I saw the needle on empty and the keys on the seat.” 

Bucky’s cheeks flamed. 

“Yeah. Can’t blame you for wondering, I guess.” 

Steve snapped pictures of the car from different angles and perspectives, doing a few close-ups of things like the windows and mirrors, catching the trees and sky reflected on their surfaces. He went for some crazy shots, lying on his back to get a gopher’s-eye view of the front grill and headlights. 

“You’re really into this,” Bucky muttered. 

“She’s a work of art,” Steve told him. “She deserves to be celebrated.” He took more shots from inside the car, capturing different things through the windshield that Bucky wouldn’t have thought of himself. “I shoot pictures for travel and hobby magazines from time to time,” Steve told him. “People love stock photos of old cars.” 

“Whatever puts food on the table,” Bucky agreed. 

“Well. Ramen, maybe. It puts ramen on the table,” Steve clarified. “Which is _almost_ food.” 

They stayed in the lot for another half an hour before Steve had an idea. “Wanna go to the river? It’s a good day for it.” 

“Can you manage the climb again?” The river was over the bridge again, out beyond the footpath and downhill to the other side, and it was a considerable walk. 

“I should be good.” He patted his pocket. “Got my inhaler.” 

“ _That’s_ reassuring, Steve.”

“It’ll be fine,” Steve insisted. 

Steve started breathing hard after about thirty yards, and Bucky instinctively reached for his arm, making him stop for a minute. “Take it easy.” 

“Still… still feelin’… good,” he panted. “Don’t worry about it.” Bucky still held onto him, urging him uphill and pulling him along to give him more momentum. 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re hardheaded?” 

“You mean, anyone who’s still actually my friend afterward?” 

“Sap.” Steve was out of breath – it as pitiful, really - but he managed a laugh, anyway. They crossed the bridge, and it wasn’t as daunting in daylight, and with company. But Steve still looked a little pale as they crossed, especially when they walked across some of the creakier planks. They headed down the path to the clearing, Bucky helping Steve as they hiked, looking out for hidden roots and large rocks that could trip him up and pulling aside branches that would otherwise slap him in the face. Bucky liked Steve’s face, so he had to be a little protective of it. 

The late morning sunlight made the water sparkle as it rushed over the rocks. “Can’t get that close,” Steve cautioned him. “Rocks are too slippery along here.” But it still offered a great view. Steve shot more pictures while he chatted with Bucky. They played twenty questions. Steve was a Cancer, his favorite sign, and he studied art and graphics at Syracuse. He was an only child, and he was already an orphan; his father, Joe, died in a hunting accident when he was five. Bucky was grateful to still have Winifred, even though things were shaky between them. Steve kept asking Bucky if he had anything else he needed to do with his day, but Bucky told him that his day was pretty… open. 

And it was looking brighter all the time. 


	2. Under a Fleece Blanket, Reminiscing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky takes stock, finds peace, and reconciles himself to the fact that Lucky likes Steve better than him. But he’s okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter was heavy, perhaps too heavy judging by the crickets chirping in the background since I uploaded it. I promise this one is lighter. Happy Labor Day weekend, everyone.
> 
> Let me amend that: SOMEWHAT lighter. I don't know why this prompt hit me so damned hard.

Steve’s flesh was glued to Bucky’s from his sweat, and he woke up to his halitosis and his whistling breathing, waking abruptly when Steve jerked in his sleep. Groggily, Bucky glanced around their room and saw the glowing red display of his clock radio. _2:15AM_ Bucky exhaled gustily, slightly stirring Steve’s hair, then tightened his arms around him just because he could.

Even when Steve and Bucky fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed – which happened sometimes, especially if they were having a tiff – they still ended up tangled together by the middle of the night, often with Steve’s nose snuffling under Bucky’s chin or buried in his neck. For a guy who wasn’t that big, he took up a lot of space, Bucky mused as Steve snored softly. Not that he minded. Lucky was a little put out about it, though, since his own place on the queen-sized bed had been usurped. He took umbrage for that every day by washing Steve’s face with his sloppy, musky tongue as soon as he came to rouse his daddies for breakfast and to be let out.

Steve was a deep enough sleeper that Bucky could touch and kiss him at his leisure without waking him very easily. He loved these moments where he could just caress his smooth skin and trace the contour of his cheek with reverent fingertips. Steve had a strong grip on him, even in sleep, one slender leg clamped around both of Bucky’s and his arm locked around his waist. If he was drooling on Bucky a little, it was no big deal. 

“I love you,” Bucky mouthed into the darkness. The revelation that he’d fallen for Steve hit Bucky like a truck. Gently, he finger-combed Steve’s bangs back from his face, staring down at him and feeling so much love surging through him, warming his chest. Bucky tugged the soft fleece blanket up to cover them more comfortably; it was Steve’s favorite.

His memories ran backward on slow reel, and he relived the days following that night, the changes he’d made in his life that taught him that it was worth living, and _sharing._

*

Clint gave him the stink-eye when he returned to pick up Lucky. “Next time, bring him more food,” he emphasized as he let Bucky inside his living room. “Yo! Pizza Dog! Your daddy’s home!” Bucky looked incredulous.

“Pizza Dog? Seriously, Clint?” He heard the jingling of Lucky’s tags and the scrabble of his little claws against Clint’s hardwood floors as he ran to greet him, and Bucky felt his eyes smart as he knelt to accept his sloppy greetings. “You okay? You look kinda… disheveled.”

Bucky couldn’t blame him for wondering; “disheveled” was being kind. He’d spent the rest of the day after he came home going through his house to distract himself, a stay-cation of sorts. Steve had paused at his door, rubbing his nape.

“Guess I’ll get out of your hair and let you do your thing.” He smiled up at him. “Check that gas gauge a little more often, buddy.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Bucky retorted, but he reached out and fist-bumped him. “I, uh, don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t… come along when you did. Thanks for helping me out, Steve.”

“Any time.” Steve took off his glasses and polished them on the hem of his shirt, and why did he have to do that? Bucky felt himself shifting even further off-balance as those soft blue eyes assessed him, _assuring_ him that he had things well in hand, even though Bucky knew he didn’t deserve it. His face was so kind and welcoming, and Steve Rogers just gave off this aura of goodness. Bucky knew he had to let him get on with the rest of his day, but he was reluctant to let him go. “I know this is kinda random, but can I give you my number? I’m a lightweight, but if you need a drinking buddy some weekend, or you just wanna hang out and hit a few yard sales, or bowl a few frames-“

“You bowl?” Bucky took out his phone and saw that his battery was alarmingly low, but he opened up a new contact. 

“Here, just let me do it. What’s your number?”

“Five-Five-Five. Six-Seven. Eight-nine.” Steve’s fingertips flew over his smart screen, and in moments, Bucky got a new text. He opened it up, and he laughed to see the photo that Steve took of the shelf of Elvis figurines that lived above the mantel at Ruby’s. Bucky saved Steve as a new contact and used that photo for it, then he sent him a reply with a photo of him embracing Lucky. America, one of the discharge nurses he worked with, took it of him at a coworker’s pool party the summer before. Steve grinned down at the screen when his phone pinged at him.

“Awwww… cute.”

“He is. He knows it, too. He’s an egomaniac.”

“You both are.” Steve’s cheeks flushed a little. “Cute. Not… you don’t have a big ego, uh…”

“Thanks, pal,” Bucky told him, lightly punching him in the shoulder. Steve snickered.

“M’gonna go,” Steve told him. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Bucky.”

“See ya, Steve.” He watched that lithe little body trot down his front steps, avoiding the ceramic frogs. Steve waved to him as he backed out of his driveway, and Bucky’s hand seemed to hang in the air longer than it needed to. Once Steve was out of sight, Bucky reluctantly went inside his house and faced the music.

He didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t trust himself yet, so he went into the kitchen and noticed that his message light was blinking on his landline. Bucky checked the messages, feeling relieved to hear other people’s voices as he began to putter around the kitchen. He emptied the garbage and went through the fridge, cleaning out items that had expired and dumping out Tupperware that had “science projects” living in the containers.

_Beep._ “Hey, Bucky Bear. It’s Becca.” Bucky smirked to himself at his sister’s token greeting. His sister was such a cheeseball. “Was kinda hoping to catch you at home, but maybe next time. I’ll try your cell later, maybe. Just… just give me a call, okay?” Her voice had an odd little catch in it. “Bye, big brother.” He finished bagging up the trash in a cinch sack, knotting the long blue strings and putting it outside and washing his hands before he picked up the phone. He toyed with the phone cord – Bucky was just that much of a dork about his low-tech phone, not wanting a cordless that he could have to keep buying batteries for all the time, and he liked being able to play with the cord, so sue him – waiting anxiously for his sister to pick up. Just as her voice mail message began telling him the number he’d reached in her calm, even tones, he heard the line click and his sister sounding slightly out of breath.

“Oh, good,” she told him in lieu of hello. “You’re home. You’re safe.”

“Well, yeah, Beck.” He tried to sound cavalier, but guilt twanged in his chest. “Whatsamatter?”

“I just… I just wanted to talk to you. I wanted to hear your voice,” she told him, and her voice sounded funny again, off-balance and worried. “You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah. Sure, kiddo, I’m okay.”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?” She hurried on, and he could picture her twirling her hair, a constant, nervous habit, especially when she was upset with him. “I mean, if you need anything, you can call me. Don’t be shy about it, just pick up the phone. I know things have kinda sucked lately. I just want you to know, Bucky, that I’m here if you ever need me to come over and help you with anything, okay?”

“I know,” he told her gently, closing his eyes and exhaling roughly through his nose. “I’m fine, Becca. Okay? Don’t worry too much about me. I’m getting by.”

“I just had this weird feeling that I needed to talk to you. That’s all.” 

Bucky nodded, even though she couldn’t see the gesture. “Okay. That’s fine.” He huffed a laugh. “You always were a little weird…”

“Jerk.” Her little chuckle felt good, grounding him for a moment. “So, you’re fine?”

“Yeah.”

“Tried to call you last night.” Bucky saw the caller ID on his phone, and she had tried him six times before actually leaving him a voice mail. The calls were spaced out over the course of about three hours. He silently mouthed the word “Fuck” and leaned back against the counter. “When did you get back in?”

“Late. Today.”

“Oh.” That changed her tone. “Just you?”

“Sort of. No. Well… I was out all night. A friend brought me home.”

“Oh.” She made a thoughtful noise. “Was this a new friend?”

“Pretty much.” He decided injecting a bit of truth into his account couldn’t hurt. “I ran out of gas. He helped me out. It was pretty random, but he came along at the right time.”

“Wow. That was really lucky.” She sounded relieved. “Thank goodness, Bear. Glad someone was looking out for you.”

“I need as much help as I can get.” His tone was a little disparaging.

“All you have to do is ask, Bucky. Okay? Don’t be shy about it. Okay?” she repeated.

“Okay, okay!” he conceded. He moved their talk to lighter, easier subjects, feeling some of the tension in his chest unknot. Bucky talked to his sister for over an hour, welcoming the distraction and the chance not to be alone with his thoughts quite yet. He gave unending reassurances that he was managing before she would let him ring off the call.

“Call Mom,” she told him finally. “She hasn’t heard from you for a while.”

Bucky sighed.

“C’mon. Give her a ring. She’d love to hear from you. She always asks about you.”

He paused, thumping the phone cord against the side of the dishwasher as he fidgeted. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Sure.”

“I love you,” Becca told him. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay?”

“Fine.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too, Becks.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

*

Lucky was beside himself, bowling Bucky over and giving him so many sloppy, stinky kisses, tail wagging furiously. “That’s the thanks I get for spoiling you all weekend,” Clint muttered, hovering over the two of them with his arms folded. “I give you pizza, and he gets all the lovin’. What’s the deal with that?”

“It’s okay, boy, it’s okay!” Bucky assured his mutt, who was just so damned happy to see him, making little whining yips, panting all over him, planting his paws on Bucky’s shoulders as he licked and licked and licked. “I missed you, too!” Bucky stared accusingly at Clint. “What’s this about pizza?”

“He loves it,” Clint told him with a shrug. “I gave him a little leftover cooked hamburger, too. Dog’s a glutton. I took him to the dog park this morning, and he was a hit with all the ladies. We ran a good couple of miles down the bike path. Someone’ll sleep good tonight.” Lucky was still making distressed noises. “Easy, boy,” Clint chided the dog, “Daddy’s not going anywhere, right?”

Bucky didn’t tell him that it was a very near thing. Bucky gave Clint a twenty to reimburse him for the food that his dog ate and took Lucky home, and the dog sprawled himself across his lap as he drove, only content with Bucky driving one-handed while he kept scratching behind his ears. He got Lucky inside, and he made a beeline for his food dish that still held a few morsels of kibble. Bucky found the last can of wet food in the cupboard and shoveled it into the dish, chuckling as his dog inhaled it. “Clint’s right. You’re an eating machine, buddy.” He laughed again as Lucky kept nosing the dish, moving it across the floor as he devoured the food.

It was just nice to be home with someone he cared about.

*

Bucky went back to work after spending the rest of his weekend cleaning his house, making trips to Goodwill and the dump, and reorganizing his bills. It made him feel more grounded, having more control over his space. Lucky never let him out of his sight, whining every time Bucky got up to fix himself something to eat or to go to the bathroom. Every time Bucky sat back on the couch, the dog snuggled tightly against his side or immediately claimed his lap. “It’s okay, pal,” Bucky assured him, but those large, limpid brown eyes just stared up at him, unconvinced. 

His shifts were pretty typical, for the most part. He handled two incoming 5150’s and coordinated a transfer to Behavioral Health for a violent patient who liked profanity but hated pants. America brought them both decent coffee and cookies, helping him with med fills when they could get auth, ordering home care visits and equipment, and helping him to screen families when his hands would get too full. She was a godsend.

“You look a little peaked,” she mentioned. “You’ve got circles under your eyes.”

“Not sleeping great,” he admitted. 

“Layoffs will do that,” she agreed. “Any prospects?”

“Not yet.” He updated his resume and posted it _everywhere_. Bucky went to the employment office and signed up for one of their workshops, since it had been forever since he’d had to interview with anyone for a job. Whoever invented “behaviorally based interview questions” needed to be flogged. Who wanted to tell a potential boss what their biggest “area that needed development” was? “I don’t know how to be any less awesome” probably wasn’t the ideal answer to that one, but hey, he could try, couldn’t he?

“Schmidt County General is hiring,” America told him.

“They’re _always_ hiring,” he pointed out. No one’s social work department should have _that_ much turnover, he thought sourly.

“Don’t forget some of the smaller facilities,” she reminded him. “Or hospice. They can always use someone compassionate like you.”

He vaguely remembered Steve’s suggestion about his friend… Sam. That was it, Sam. 

“I’m keeping my options open,” he murmured as he checked his referrals and started on a discharge to a skilled nursing facility for a sweet woman with dementia and a fractured hip. He made a note to himself to call Steve. They stayed busy all shift, and Bucky was exhausted by the time he made his way out to the parking garage tower with America, seeing her to her old Lincoln. 

“You doing okay?” she asked him. “You really do look tired.”

“I just need to get over the hump.”

“Look, take this.” She handed him a business card. “I used Employee Assistance a few months ago when I needed some counseling. You get four free visits and twenty more per year for just the office copay. My MFT is pretty nice.” She tucked the card into his hand. “I already have her number on speed dial, so I don’t need this.”

“Thanks.”

“Might help to talk to someone. Sure helped me.”

The negative thoughts still plagued him. He was still angry with himself and had a hard time when he went home to his empty house. He paused and thought better of it when he tried to call Becca or Clint or any of his other friends. He’d considered calling Steve for the previously promised bowling match, but he was in the wrong head space. He was so nice. Steve was just so damned nice, and Bucky was a mess, and he couldn’t lay everything at his feet.

Bucky tucked the card into his pocket. “Strong work tonight, kiddo.”

“We’re the Team Supreme,” she reminded him. “Defenders of Discharge Planning!” They high-fived and he watched her drive off before he got into his own car. As he pulled out of the lot, he noticed that the sky was beginning to pinken in the distance. Part of him wished he was tucked under his fleece blanket, huddled next to Steve, watching the stars slowly disappear.

*

“Yyyyy-ello?” a pleasant voice greeted Bucky as he juggled his cell phone and the stack of papers he was sliding into a manila envelope. “Sam Wilson speaking.”

“Sam. Hey. I was given your name by a mutual friend.” He was taking liberties, calling Steve his friend when they had just met. “Steve said you work at a hospice agency-“

“Yeah! Great! You’re the social worker, right? Buddy?”

“Bucky,” he corrected him, but he grinned. “Close enough. But yeah. I work at Shield in Case Management.”

“That’s a great gig if you can get it.”

“It is. It was. I’ve got six more weeks here before I get my severance.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. It hurts.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Five years. Long enough to get pretty attached.”

“You’re not calling me in the middle of your dinner, are you? We can talk more during the day if you want-“

“No. I work nights. I just started my shift. Things are just beginning to pick up, but I wanted to give you a ring before it got hectic, or too late on your end.”

“We’ve got a spot opening pretty soon, Steve no doubt told you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“He’s great,” Bucky told him. 

“His mom was a sweetheart, too. She was actually a hospice nurse before she was diagnosed.”

“Wow.” Bucky paused in typing his actions taken on the database as he considered what he was told. Steve’s mom couldn’t have been that old, and she knew what she was in for, knew what to expect from her journey from the start. _Poor Steve…_ “I didn’t know that.”

“They were really close.”

“Steve helped me out of a bind a week ago. He was being nice, listening to me go on about my situation, but he just suggested I call you.”

“No. It was a great suggestion. The posting is going up soon, but send me a copy of your CV. I can at least show it to my manager in the meantime, and if she so _happens_ to have an hour to kill one day and wants to meet you, just keep your phone turned on, okay?”

“I can definitely do that.”

*

It was as if Bucky had conjured Steve, mentioning his name aloud. He saw him in the pharmacy the next day, juggling multiple white plastic bags. “Steve?” Bucky chucked a jar of gummy multivitamins and a can of protein mix into his shopping basket that was hooked over his arm. Steve looked up from digging his ATM out of his wallet to hand to the pharmacy clerk, then beamed at him, and oh, had Bucky missed that smile.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Who are you calling strange?” Bucky feigned hurt, then clapped him on one bony shoulder. “How’ve you been?”

“Waiting for someone to set up a time to bowl a few frames and to tell me if he took me up on that lead I mentioned?”

“Ah. In answer to those questions: I’m free tomorrow night, and Sam Wilson is awesome.” Steve grinned. 

“I told you!”

“I emailed him my resume, so we’ll see how it goes.”

“Hot dog!” Steve whooped. “Good. We’ll see how that goes. It’d be nice if it panned out.”

“Haven’t seen much else yet, if it doesn’t. Don’t wanna put all my eggs in one basket. At least work is setting the people they’re laying off with a job coach.” Bucky tried to muster a smile, but Steve saw through it.

“How nice of them,” he muttered. “Sheesh. ‘Thanks for all your hard work. Here’s a pep talk on our dime. Good luck.’”

“Ever had a job coach before?” Bucky asked, smirking now.

“Yup. Layoffs suck. _SUCK._ ” 

Bucky nodded emphatically. “This was one of my top ten things I could have lived my whole life without.”

“Yeah. We can commiserate over it in ugly shoes and overpriced beer tomorrow night. My treat.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. You can buy the nachos if you want.”

“Bowling alley nachos are gross.”

“Can’t have the experience without the gross nachos,” Steve reasoned.

“Then you buy the nachos. I’ll spring for the beer.”

And the date was set.

*

Bucky realized in a slight panic the next night if it was a _date._ He showered and put some product in his hair, contemplated his aftershave, and dabbed on the teeniest smidgen of Old Spice and hoped Steve didn’t think he was trying too hard. Because this was friendly. This was platonic. This was Steve being a nice guy and coming along at the right time, when Bucky waffled about calling him. 

This was serendipity. If Bucky was wired that way, it was _fate._ His life was a hot mess. 

But he made a new friend.

So what if he wasn’t the best bowler?

Steve showed up ten minutes early; strangely, that pleased Bucky, even though it snapped him sharply out of his reverie and made his heart pound a mile a minute as he rushed to answer the door. Steve’s knock was brisk, instead of using the doorbell. Bucky self-consciously checked his hair, skinned back into a neat ponytail. Coupled with his freshly shaven face, he looked barely legal. 

When he pulled open the door, he saw Steve looking awkwardly around him, studying his steps, but he looked up quickly and greeted Bucky with a grin. “I still can’t get over those frogs, Buck.”

“Don’t hurt their feelings. And you wish your yard had this much swag.”

“Wish I had a yard, period.”

Right. _Open mouth, insert foot, Barnes._ Sheesh.

“Come in for a sec while I grab my wallet and keys.” Steve shuffled inside, and Bucky was pleased to see that Steve went the casual route with his clothes, too, wearing broken-in jeans and a soft-looking blue and green fitted flannel that snapped up the front. Steve glanced around his living room, which thankfully was cleaner than his last visit, and Bucky’s kitchen didn’t smell like something died in it. Steve perused the photos on side tables and walls, and a smile tugged at his lips.

“Is that you and your sister?”

“Yup.”

“Look at those teeth.”

“I hated wearing braces. Used to have to wear rubber bands on them, and they would shoot out of my mouth sometimes. Middle school was the eighth ring of hell.”

“I started wearing bifocals by the time I was old enough to read. My mom made me wear them on a safety strap during PE. I got picked last for every team. _Every_ team, Buck.”

“Okay. You win.” 

Steve grunted. “Jerk.” Bucky snickered as they left the house and locked up. Steve’s car still made him feel like he was folded in half, but Steve already moved his seat back to make a smidgen of room for his long legs. 

That was nice.

Steve fiddled with his stereo when he ran out of radio stations, switching off of Justin Bieber, Rihanna, Taylor Swift, Ed Sheeran and Sam Smith before finally plugging in his Pandora and tuning it to a station calling itself “90’s Grunge.”

“I haven’t heard this since grade school.”

“I still have the Alice in Chains shirt that my cousin brought me when he saw them in concert. Don’t judge me.”

“Never happen.” They took the long way around town instead of getting on the freeway, which Bucky didn’t mind. Steve parked in the back of the lot, even though there were plenty of empty spaces.

“Don’t want anyone dinging me,” he explained. Bucky wouldn’t judge him for that, either. They went into the alley and paid for two sets. The lanes were surprisingly crowded, and Bucky realized it might be a league night. The mini-arcade was still swarming with kids raising a racket from the air hockey tables and a Pole Position game that was older than Bucky was. The alley was flooded with the odors of nacho cheese and popcorn grease. Bucky saw three hot dogs left on the rollers that looked like they were on their last legs.

“We’re not eating hot dogs,” he told Steve.

“My standards are higher than that, thank you very much.” Steve took a size eleven shoe – bigger than Bucky figured, and naturally he glanced down at his feet, relatively big for a guy who was so short – while Bucky took the twelve. They were hideous and the red leather was peeling slightly.

“These are still better than rental skates,” Steve proclaimed as they headed to their lane and laced up. “Those things are _nasty._ ”

“Let’s see. Poop brown. Laces that the aglets have fallen off of and stoppers that are ground down to nothing, that make a weird grinding noise when you skate in them?”

“You know the skates I’m talking about.”

“I haven’t been to ProSkate forever,” Bucky admitted. “Nachos are just as gross there. I used to get the snow cone there when I was a kid, though.”

“The snow cones _rocked._ ” Steve set their scoreboard up on the console, keying in their initials. “You can go first.”

“So you can watch me suck? You’re too good to me.”

“Pal, I can bowl an 80 on my best day!”

“Really?” Bucky was hopeful.

“I throw fewer gutterballs after I’ve had a couple of beers.”

“Or you just don’t notice the gutterballs after the beer,” Bucky reasoned.

“Just bowl already, wise guy.”

They were both awful. Their ears were assailed by old eighties metal, and Bucky hummed along to Def Leppard’s “Hysteria” as he took his turn, then laughed at Steve as the night progressed, doing a comical dance to AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” Both of them threw gutterballs and missed easy spares. By the end of the first set, they polished off a pitcher of beer and Bucky was nibbling on the disgusting nachos despite himself. Bucky was ahead by six points.

“That’s embarrassing. Look, those old ladies are even laughing at us.” There was a geriatric looking pair of couples the next lane over who kept glancing over at them whenever they were too loud. Bucky offered to put the bumper rails up for Steve, who promptly thanked him and flipped him off. 

“My mom used to watch a show called ‘Bowling for Dollars,’” Steve told Bucky. “Candlepin bowling. The kind with the tiny balls.”

“Tiny balls, huh?” Bucky leered, and Steve gave him a look of mock disgust.

“Get your mind outta the gutter, Barnes!”

“Hey, you said it,” Bucky countered.

“But it was a show. It was actually a thing.”

“Y’know, you’re right. My mom made me sit down for an episode of the Carol Burnett Show,” Bucky mentioned. “Ed and Eunice were talking about ‘Bowling for Furniture.’”

“Geez…” Steve shook his head. “Just… no.” Bucky snickered again.

The geezers from the next lane took pity on them, and a tall, portly gentleman with a decent combover and a scar across his nose from no doubt having a melanoma removed came over and showed Steve how to “follow through” on his swing. “Straighten your wrist. Hook your arm, you’re putting too much spin on the ball, kiddo…” Bucky raised his brows at Steve, who gave him a look of “wtf?” around the guy’s shoulder. Thing was, the guy was a great bowler, demonstrating with Steve’s nine-pound ball and making a strike. Steve and Bucky both applauded him. “You try it,” he told Steve.

“His swing could use some work, too,” Steve informed him, and Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, but Steve only grinned. Their new teacher hefted Bucky’s ball and made a face.

“Try a heavier one. This one might be giving you too much spin.” Bucky briefly “oof’ed” as he was handed a 13-pound ball. “Don’t rush the shot. Follow through. Don’t let that back foot go all over the place…” The guy manipulated Bucky’s arm like he was a rag doll.

“Think I might need a heavier ball, too,” Steve suggested, not to be outdone. The man eyed him solemnly.

“That nine-pound ball might be best for you, sonny.” Steve looked affronted, and Bucky stifled the sputtering laugh that threatened to burst from his chest. Bucky indulged the man and bowled his last two shots and managed to knock down two pins. It was a humbling experience.

“Thanks for the tips,” Bucky called after him as the man went back to his own game. 

“Would you be heartbroken if we skipped the last few frames?” Steve murmured.

“Crushed,” Bucky told him, then, “unless there’s food involved?”

“Drive-in across the street?” Steve said, brightening. “You could twist my arm a little…” Bucky grabbed his arm and pretended to twist it, and Steve cried out theatrically, “Uncle! Uncle! Okay, I’ll let you buy me a malted, Bucky! I give up!”

They surrendered the hideous shoes, waved goodbye to the older gent, threw out the offending, depleted carton of nachos, and crossed the street at the walk light. Bucky huffed in amusement when Steve grabbed his hand and pulled him along. 

“Thanks, Mom,” he teased.

“Sorry. Instinct.” Steve reluctantly – Bucky thought – released his hand when they reached the other side, but Bucky hammed it up, linking arms with Steve. 

“My hero! You’re so gallant, Mr. Rogers! Guiding lil’ ol’ me across the street and keeping me out of mortal danger!”

“Oh, my God, let go of me so people don’t think I’m with you…” But Steve was chuckling, and they kept their arms linked in the way into the restaurant, and if Bucky was slightly flushed with pleasure, enjoying the contact of that lean body against his, however briefly, he could blame his pink cheeks on the beer and shenanigans of the bowling alley. They ordered a ridiculous selection of deep-fried sin and soft-serve malteds and burgers dripping with condiments and lukewarm pickles. Bucky squirted ketchup over his whole pile of onion rings; Steve was a dipper, filling himself two paper tubs.

They slowly sobered and chatted over the next couple of hours as families around them began to leave and students drifted inside following benders, reading the free college newspapers and nursing freezes and fry baskets.

“Did you always know you wanted to help people?” Steve asked him as he tore up the last bits of his soggy bun, already tired of it. 

“No. I was an engineering major. I took a psych class for my Humanities requirement, and I loved it. Changed my major the next semester. I interned for the school district and enjoyed the kids that I got to interact with. It was just nice to give them someone to talk to who wouldn’t give them a hard time when they were already having a bad day. I worked at a juvenile group home for a couple of years, too. That kept me on my toes.”

“What was that like?”

“I saw about a dozen different versions of myself, when I think about how things could have been if I hadn’t gotten my act together. I acted out a lot after my folks split.” Steve nodded, stirring the dregs of his malted with his straw. “My dad and I were at each other’s throats whenever it was his weekend to have me and Becca.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah. Kinda did. He didn’t put up with my shit, and I’d have my nose out of joint when I came back to Mom’s. They argued about me a lot. Becca used to get upset. She hated listening to us fight, and she’d just get up and go back to her room.” Bucky remembered going back to her room later, chastened, wandering into her room without knocking and watching her glare up at him from her desk, where she listened to her Walkman and re-read her Narnia books while he brought her peace offerings of chocolate chip granola bars or a Charms Blow Pop that he bought at the Liggett’s Rex-All when he was supposed to be in study hall. “We got on each other’s nerves until I went to college. Gave us the chance to miss each other, and I remembered going through some of the same stuff in high school that she did. It changed things between us.”

“I wish I had a brother or sister, sometimes,” Steve admitted. “I would’ve had someone to blame stuff on when I got into trouble. It was all me.” Bucky grinned.

“Were you spoiled?”

“Sometimes. But after Dad died, we were kinda poor.” Steve toyed with the scrunched up straw paper, dripping a drop of water onto it to watch it unwind. “I had a paper route. Saved my money for weeks to buy a Nintendo 64.”

“You, my friend, had swag.” Bucky sucked down the rest of his malt, skraking the bottom of the cup a bit shamelessly. “I miss my dad.”

“Was it recent that you lost him?”

“Yeah. Few months ago.” Steve was watching him with a blend of remembered pain, normally shelved, and empathy that made Bucky’s throat tighten. “We didn’t leave things that great between us, Steve.”

“He’s not thinking about any of that now, Buck,” Steve told him. “You miss him. He knows that.” Bucky’s fist clenched against the table and he looked away for a moment, eyes stinging. He flinched, then relaxed, when Steve reached out and covered his hand. “Bucky. Look. Look at me.” Bucky managed it, and Steve’s eyes were compassionate, probing Bucky’s. “People sometimes get mad at people they love. Did you love him?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I was… just so mad at him. I didn’t talk to him that often. I just felt like… all we did was butt heads. I would tell him what I was doing, and he’d give me ten thousand ways that I could be doing better-“

“Parents do that.”

“I loved him. I just used to dread calling him, Steve. He and my mom didn’t split on good terms, and… everything really went to hell when I came out to him.” Bucky steeled himself for Steve to release his hand, for the air between them to get awkward and thick.

Steve’s fingers changed their grip, curling around his so he could stroke Bucky’s knuckles with his thumb. He tapped them thoughtfully and chose his next words carefully. “You’re still his son. And boys are hardheaded. We are. Takes a while for that temporal lobe to develop. We’re put on this earth to drive our dads nuts. You know that, right?” Bucky managed a slight smile, but it was strained. He squeezed Steve’s fingers back. “You’re a good man. Maybe he told you ten thousand things you could’ve been doing, but Bucky, he probably meant that you’re capable of doing them all. He thought you had potential. And you’re not wasting it, don’t even say it, I know you’re thinking it. You’re making the face. I know that face.”

“You’ve never seen me make that face.”

“No. But I make that face,” Steve admitted. “You’re not allowed.”

“Do as you say, not as you do?” Bucky took his hand back and folded his arms. “I’m never bowling with you again, Steve.” Steve mimed wiping away tears with his knuckles. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Any time, Bucky.”

They drove home and took the long way again, letting the music play on low volume. Steve rolled the knob down until “Evenflow” was just a dim buzz barely audible over the hum of the engine. Bucky and Steve lingered a few moments, and it was hard for Bucky to make the first move to get out of the car. There were things he wished he could say… he was _brimming_ with them. But this was a first outing together. Two friends hanging out, it wasn’t supposed to be heavy, they were just testing the waters.

“My mom wasn’t thrilled when I came out,” Steve blurted out.

That settled that question for Bucky, and a knot of tension in his stomach uncoiled itself.

“She accepted it. It took a long time.” Steve gripped the steering wheel hard as he revisited the memory, sighing. “She told me she still loved me, but I still thought she was disappointed. Thing was, she wasn’t. She was worried. She didn’t want kids giving me a hard time, didn’t want me to have a hard time finding someone nice to date… she didn’t want me to be lonely.” Steve huffed. “I was always sick. I was always getting into fights. This was one more thing for her to fret about. Frankly, Bucky, since I was an only child, I think she was pissed that she wasn’t gonna get any grandkids.”

“It’s not out of the ballpark,” Bucky mused. He realized how that sounded and mentally kicked himself again. 

“It’s _not._ ” Steve cut the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. “I’ll walk you up.” Bucky gave him a lopsided smile.

“There’s that chivalry again. Someone was raised really, really well.”

“There could be robbers lurking in your bushes, despite your watch frogs.” They headed up the front steps, and Steve waited for Bucky to dig out his keys, and Bucky felt his face heating up again, all the way to his hairline, and his skin was tingling, and it was so weird not knowing what to expect, because this wasn’t a _date_ , it was just two guys hanging out who had just met-

“I had a good time,” Steve told him. “How does ProSkate sound next time?”

“Good,” Bucky breathed, because that wasn’t awkward, and of _course_ he wanted to see Steve again, because he was easy to be around and talk to, and it would be even easier-

His rapid-fire train of thought and jangled nerves were silenced at the touch of Steve’s hand, wrapping around his. “Good night, Bucky.” He rose up on tiptoes and gently kissed his cheek.

“Steve,” Bucky attempted, mouth dry, heartbeat pounding, “would it be okay, if, uh…”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” His voice sounded stilted to his own ears, and he inclined his head down to meet Steve before he could talk himself out of it, because there was no way he could turn down the opportunity, not when Steve was looking at him like that, eyes dilated, body language telling him _it’s okay, you can_ , and when those soft-looking pink lips were parting slightly for him. And Bucky was lost in the kiss, sighing into it as Steve’s warm breath mingled with his, feeling himself prickle all over with pleasure at the slide of Steve’s hand around his nape, fingers curling into his hair. Bucky’s arms slid around his narrow waist, a perfect as Steve’s lips brushed over his again, and again. Steve nipped his lower lip, then sucked on it, and the kiss grew hot. Steve’s arms curled around Bucky’s neck, and he was standing on his toes again to meet until Bucky came up for air.

“Wait. Just… wait. C’mere.” Steve looked confused when he pulled him to the porch steps. “Stay,” he told him, and Bucky stepped down onto the next one down, and Steve grinned at him as Bucky drew him in again.

“Jerk,” he murmured before he went back to kissing him properly. They made out with no regard to the neighbors for several minutes. Every nerve in Bucky’s body was singing, and he wanted so badly to take Steve inside, but things needed a chance to develop. They were just two friends, after all…

“ProSkate. Text me when you have a night off,” Steve told him, caressing his jaw. 

“Good night, Steve.”

“Good night, Buck.” The last kiss was long, indecent, and Bucky knew he was in trouble. At this rate, they’d never make it to the rink. Steve’s lips tasted faintly of vanilla ice cream and salt.

It was perfect.

*

Bucky interviewed with Sam and his director two weeks later. Bucky went to the appointment with his “job coach” and the corny practice interview seminar that week, anyway, but it helped him to get back on the horse and refresh his jobhunting skills. Sam’s director, Maria, gave slightly wooden responses as he answered her questions, but Sam’s expressions were encouraging and bright.

“Hospice isn’t for the faint of heart,” she told him simply. 

“It’s not,” he agreed. “I connect well with families.”

“These aren’t the demographic of the patient community that you’re used to dealing with. It’s not like planning discharges for patients who are just going home to recover.”

“Someone needs to be there for the ones who aren’t.”

A smile worked its way onto her lips. “Yes, we do.”

Sam glanced down at his clipboard and made notes, and Bucky saw that he was smiling, too. Bucky left with the jitters, exhilarated to have made his way through it. His hands shook slightly as he fiddled with his car keys. He distracted himself at home, changed from his interview clothes to his favorite Eddie Bauer PJ pants and heated up his dinner. His phone buzzed with a text.

Sam: _It’s looking good. I’ll keep you posted._

Bucky grinned as he dumped half a bag of yolkless noodles into his boiling pot.

*

ProSkate. The bowling lanes. The swap meet flea market. Yard sales. Independent films at the old El Dorado theater that actually had couches in the front row and dollar popcorn. A Christopher Titus show that left them breathless and hoarse with laughter. Steve and Bucky let things “develop,” leaving it unspoken between them that they would take things slow, but kisses said otherwise, and every night it was so hard to say “Good night,” hovering outside the door, ajar with Bucky’s keys dangling from the lock, moths flitting around the porch light. They did pedestrian things together, like laundry and browsing Barnes and Noble with mocha fraps clutched in their free hands with fingers intertwined. Holding hands in the grocery store, because yes, Bucky was that whipped. They still held hands crossing the street, because yes, it was instinctive, and Bucky never wanted to let go of Steve.

Things grew heated again on the porch, and Steve tasted too good, his skin felt soft and hot beneath Bucky’s palms when he slid them up the back of his shirt, and a mosquito was draining all the blood out of the back of his neck, but he was too distracted to smack it. “Stevie… can we… “

“Yeah.” Steve nodded quickly, eyes almost black with passion. “Yes. Just… yes.” Bucky pulled him inside, kicked the door shut, locked the latch, and practically ran - _ran_ with Steve upstairs. They practically tripped over the threshold and Bucky hoarsely croaked, “C’mere…”

“Too long, waited too long, want this too much,” Steve breathed between kisses as they tugged at each other’s clothing, fingers combing through hair, jerking open fastenings and zippers. Panting breaths and kisses mingled with the sounds of shoes and clothing dropping to the floor, and their kisses grew frenzied, then drawn out as their hands found bare skin, no more barriers between them. They sank down onto Bucky’s cool sheets, with Steve straddling Bucky’s lap, just lingering in the feel of each other.

“You know I’m falling for you, right?” Steve asked anxiously, tugging on Bucky’s hair to get his attention, cupping his face. “I want this. I want _you._ ”

“I love you,” Bucky blurted out. “Please tell me that’s okay.”

“It’s okay. It’s _more_ than okay. Now I want you to fuck me until I pass out.”

“Okay. Okay…” And he was helpless, unable to stop the whimper of need that escaped him as Steve ground against him. Steve kept warning him that he wouldn’t last long. Every hoarse cry of Bucky’s name as he drew things out, teasing him, then slowing down, then working him up again proved him wrong. By the time Steve climaxed, shuddering beneath Bucky, he’d nearly shouted down the roof. Bucky tipped over the edge, limp and completely used. Blissful. Smiling blearily in the dark. 

“That was loud,” Steve murmured, sounding almost shy. But Bucky heard his smile as he played with Bucky’s hair.

“My neighbors used to complain about the guy on my left who had this little yappy dog that barked all night long,” Bucky told Steve smugly. “Told him to get it a bark collar.”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing,” Bucky purred. “Not a damned thing.”

Steve waited a beat, then huffed. “Asshole,” he growled. Bucky snickered and kissed him before he could take umbrage.

*

True to his word, Steve was an _awful_ roommate.

He never washed the dishes and he often left one swallow of milk in the carton. He always dried too many towels in the wash load and all of it took forever to dry, making Bucky squawk about the energy bill. He hogged up all the covers when it was cold and kicked them all to the floor when it was hot. Every time he made dinner, he over-peppered the chicken and dirtied every dish in the house. He had it waiting for Bucky most nights when he got home, the day’s mail already laid on the counter. Yet he never went through and threw out the junk mail. He snuck Lucky table food scraps when Bucky told him he was only supposed to eat his Iam’s, or he’d get spoiled. It irked him to death.

When Bucky started working day shift at the home health and hospice agency – three very rewarding years and counting, so far – Steve kept him up late at night, ever the insomniac artist. Steve loved watching their Netflix queue in the middle of the night as he sketched, but he could be convinced to put down his pencils and to cuddle with Bucky on the couch, long legs wrapped around his hips. When Bucky collapsed into bed, he would sigh in defeat when Steve kissed the back of his neck in _just that way_ , hands pulling at him, teasing him until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

The siren call of his lean body, the hot, tight grip he had on him and his unerring caresses, the way he responded to Bucky was enough to make Bucky forgive the small things. 

He _loved_ the small things.

He loved _Steve._

*

Perhaps Bucky gave Steve one too many kisses, or held him just a little too tight. He yawned and stretched against Bucky, ending his musings. His blue eyes cracked open, and he reached up and stroked his hair, kissing Bucky’s jaw.

“What’s up? Can’t sleep?”

“Steve… I… when we met, I was in a bad place.”

“You okay, baby?”

“Yeah. I am, now, Stevie. I just… I just wanna say thank you.”

“For what?” Steve yawned again and rolled on top of him, propping his chin against his crossed arms. Bucky caressed his skin and drew patterns on it with his fingertips.

“For coming along when you did.” Bucky’s eyes smarted, and his voice was thick. “Damn it, Stevie… I was in a bad place… if you hadn’t come along…” Steve’s hands reached for him, smoothing back his hair, tracing the contour of his cheek, wiping away his tears when he found them.

“It’s okay, Bucky. I’m here, baby.”

“I know. I know. I was ready to end it all. I was losing my job, and I’d just lost my dad, and my mom and I weren’t talking… everything in my life was a mess. I drank that bottle… I wanted to step off that bridge so badly…” And Steve just keeps stroking him, kissing him, murmuring over again that he’s not going anywhere, and Bucky hears Steve swallowing thickly with emotion, and if Steve is holding him a little tightly, making anxious sounds… 

“I saw that look on your face. I saw you… up against the railing, and… I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing. You were just standing there, and… your car was down in the lot. You left the keys behind, and your eyes… God, Bucky, your eyes looked so lost. So hurt.” Bucky felt Steve’s tears drip onto his neck, heard him sniffling, felt his hands still stroking through his hair. “At first, I thought… you were just out to watch the stars. I just… I just couldn’t let you…” Steve’s voice broke.

“Stevie,” Bucky rasped. “Thank you. Thank you for calling out to me. Thank you for just being with me when I needed it. Thank you.” Steve was crying openly and clinging to him so hard. “It’s okay.”

“I love you.”

“God, Stevie, I love you so much.”

“I never knew if you wanted to talk about it.” Steve was trying to catch his breath, and Bucky just held him, just listened to their hearts beating. “I always wondered. I was always worried. I never wanted to push you and ask if you weren’t ready.”

“I wanted to see the sunrise. One last time. Because it was beautiful. I wanted to take the sight of it with me.” Steve was shuddering, more sobs lodged in his throat.

“I’m glad you w-waited that long,” Steve hiccupped. And it tears Bucky apart, the thought that _Steve_ would have found him first, if he’d climbed the bridge even _minutes_ later… “I love you. Love you.” Because Steve needed to tell him, needed to show him, needed him to _believe it,_ from the roots of his soul. Bucky let him know that he wanted to wake up to the sight of him every day, that he was the most beautiful thing he ever saw, and he wanted to take the sight of him into his dreams every night. 

More beautiful than the sunrise.

They stayed up talking in the dark, then slowly made love again, eventually watching the sunrise through the curtain sheers and the rest of the stars fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chico really DOES have a theater called the Pageant that has couches in the front row.


End file.
